Life Without A Compass
by sympathex
Summary: 15 years after the events of AWE, Elizabeth has returned to England and shares her memories of a certain Pirate ... JxE, Spoilers for DMC
1. Chapter 1

The plot bunny lurking around in my garden for some time now forced me to write PotC-Fanfiction - and with the help of my brilliant beta **nelliedances** I even managed to do so in English. I'd be delighted if you gave it a try :-)

Reviews of all kind (including concrit!) are more than welcome!  
**  
****Title:** "Life Without A Compass"  
**Author:** ladyofthesilent  
**Rating:** hard R, maybe NC-17 (for later chapters)  
**Pairings:** Jack/Elizabeth, some Will/Elizabeth and Elizabeth/others (implied)   
**Genre: **Humour/Romance/Angst/General (probably a little bit of everything)  
**Warnings:** Spoilers for CotBP and DMC  
**Disclaimer:** The mouse? But I honestly believe Jack and Elizabeth are owned by no one but themselves ...  
**Summary:** 15 years after AWE, Elizabeth has returned to England and meets a young woman in need of some advice ...  
**Status:** Chapter 1 - Infatuation

The small but elegant carriage moved along the gravel drive, leading up to a large mansion which would have been impressive, had it been approached during daytime. Now, only a few minutes to midnight, darkness had fallen and the house was towering ghostly into the night sky. One room was still light and a lantern was flickering right where the entrance had to be but otherwise there was nothing to suggest that a warm welcome was to await the young woman sitting in the coach.

Charlotte Cowley frowned slightly. This summer would leave much to be desired, she was sure about that. Time at Chiswick Hall had the nasty habit of passing in an exceptionally slow fashion. Apart from having breakfast, tea and dinner, there was not much to be done throughout the whole day – except for sitting in the parlour with Aunt Augusta and her smelly lapdog, listening to her distributing the latest gossip while feeling strangely intimidated by the dog's never ceasing snarl. There were no rides through the extensive park since Aunt Augusta didn't believe it to be appropriate for a young lady to handle a horse; there were no games, no interesting guests, and – worst of all – no opportunity to see …

'No!', she reminded herself, steadying herself in defiance of the still jolting carriage. She would not think about HIM. He was gone now, more than – she did not know how many – miles between them. And she would never see him again. She had told him so in her final letter to him, written and delivered under her mother's stringent eyes.

There was nothing left now but to forget. Charlotte decided that she'd done a good job with it so far, even with this small lapse. She hadn't thought about him for quite some time now; at least the past three minutes had been fully occupied with dark and depressing ponderings on her life without him which – obviously – had nothing to do with him. Well, almost.

She was mentally patting herself on the shoulder when the carriage suddenly stopped and almost made her tumble down her seat. In shock, she grabbed her hat, pulled it off and by that destroyed what had once been a complicated hairstyle. Panicking, she began to furtively fix some loose strands, but to no avail. It only got worse and by the time a black clad servant formally opened the door, she looked as if she had encountered and fought some strange beast during the journey. The servant, however, didn't seem to be moved by her strange appearance, though he must have noticed her dishevelled state. While she let him help her step off the carriage, she wondered how those people did it. How was it even possible to appear THAT unmoved by the odd and all too often amusing moments provided by the people they were serving? It obviously demanded a fair deal of self-control – something Charlotte had never quite possessed. She smiled admirably at the servant who had by now taken her handbag, but he seemed decidedly unmoved by that either. Maybe it would make quite an exciting pastime to force a smile – a real one! – out of one of those grave looking, black clad individuals.

Still clutching her hat in her right hand, she followed the servant up to the entrance. She took a deep breath, preparing herself for her aunt's derisive comments on her appearance and her reasons for spending the summer at Chiswick. A knock at the door was answered by a inquiring voice from inside and soon a powdered wig appeared, followed by a head dominated by watery grey eyes and a stocky body which when put together formed Aunt Augusta's head servant Mr. Pepys. He held up a small lantern and Charlotte had to momentarily close her eyes, having just spent hours in the dim light of the coach.

Though Pepys didn't seem to care much for her appearance, Charlotte felt he didn't care much for seeing her either. Visitors were seen as an interference with the quiet and uneventful life at Chiswick and it had taken her mother quite some time to persuade Aunt Augusta to take her in at all. It was not until it was mentioned that the reputation of the family might be endangered if Charlotte didn't leave London and so it was decided that she was to spend the summer with Augusta, her dog and the grave looking servants in this dark and boring old house in the countryside.

"Your arrival has been awaited, Miss", Pepys said formally but there was something in his voice telling Charlotte that he was decidedly annoyed. He preceded her down the entrance hall and through a large corridor which, as she knew, led up to the library. This caused some astonishment since Aunt Augusta rarely used that particular room in the house. It had been her late husband's domain and Augusta herself didn't care much about books. She usually preferred sitting in the parlour, working on some awfully ugly piece of embroidery while talking to the snarling dog.

On entering the library, Pepys stiffly announced: "Miss Cowley has arrived, M'lady."

"Thank you, Pepys. You may take your leave of us now," a voice replied – which definitely didn't belong to Aunt Augusta.

And with Pepys closing the door behind him, Charlotte found herself facing a tall woman sitting in an overstuffed armchair. She probably had been reading since a couple of books where lying on the small table next to her on which a candelabra had been placed. She was smiling and Charlotte detected some underlying amusement in her lively brown eyes glittering in the candlelight.

"Good evening, Charlotte – I may call you Charlotte?"

"Yes … I mean, good evening. I am sorry I …"

"Nothing to be sorry for", the woman interrupted. And indeed, it was late and she didn't give much for excuses which were made out of nothing but courtesy. "I am sure you're wondering about that strange woman sitting opposite you, looking nothing like your dear aunt. Am I right?"

"Well, yes … but I am sorry, I am not …"

"I already told you: Nothing to be sorry for. To be frank, there are not many things in my life I am really sorry for and I grant the same to other people. But to answer the questions you're dying to ask but obviously are too polite to do so: I am Lady Wentworth but you may call me Elizabeth. And yes, I know you've already heard of me and honestly, I am excited to learn WHAT you've heard of me. But let's leave that for later. – No, don't interrupt me. No more sorrys, remember? Now, I am a guest of your dear aunt Lady Beauchamp. She kindly invited me to stay at Chiswick when we met in Bath this spring. You see, I am suffering from quite a nasty cough that won't leave me and, since my own estate is located in the north, I very gratefully embraced the opportunity to spend the summer in Sussex. As it is, your aunt has left yesterday because her mother-in-law is not feeling well and demanded to see her. I have been asked to tell you that Lady Beauchamp sends you her very sincere apologies, greetings, best wishes and such – do you want to hear the rest? Probably not, I see. If the old woman – that is, Lady Tateshal – is pretending to die again, it will be weeks until your aunt can be expected to come back to Chiswick. At least, that's what I have been told by the servants. Be it as it may, it seems like you will have to put up with me for the time to come."

She leaned back in her armchair, signalising that her little speech was over and that it was now Charlotte's turn to say something. Contrary to the servants, Lady Elizabeth Wentworth made no effort to suppress her amusement on Charlotte's appearance and seemed to take some twisted pleasure in soaking up her obvious bewilderment. Charlotte was not quite sure she liked this woman's company, most notably because she had indeed heard of her. Everybody in London had, presumably. She had appeared in England about 15 years ago, literary out of nowhere. Rumour had it she had lived in a place called Jamaica (wherever this place had to be) and was brought from there by the king himself. She soon became famous in London society for telling the most shocking and exciting stories about pirates, secret love affairs and dangerous adventures – using language that would even have made a sailor blush. Not more than a year after she had arrived in England, she got married to Lord Wentworth, a rich and reputable nobleman almost 30 years her senior. He had died two years ago which left her an independent and affluent woman of good standing. There were rumours about her moral conduct leaving much to be desired and … well, looking at her, Charlotte decided that she probably had no trouble whatsoever in finding a suitable lover.

Though Elizabeth had not bothered to leave her armchair, Charlotte was able to make out that she must be a rather tall woman with the lean and agile body of a young girl. Her face was outstandingly handsome, with big brown eyes and full lips. Her hair was of a very light brown and dressed into an elegant hairstyle. No matter how you looked at her, Charlotte decided, this woman did look nothing like the late thirties she had to be in. She suddenly felt very ugly and unappealing. Was there anything special about her common face, the boring and somewhat jejune blonde hair and the slightly too broad hips? Maybe – no, probably, HE would have left her anyway, sooner or later. As long as there were women like Lady Wentworth in this world, no man would bother to look at Charlotte Cowley for more than a few wasted seconds.

Elizabeth entertained herself by looking at the awkward girl and almost couldn't keep herself from laughing out loud. Charlotte Cowley was undeniable a very pleasant and beautiful girl – and the shyness and naivety she was displaying at the moment had probably attracted many a young fellow. Among them the poor drawing master she was sent to Chiswick for. She stared at Elizabeth like she had just encountered a ghost or worse – oh yes, the older woman mused, Charlotte had most probably had heard talking about her and was now pondering on what to make of it.

"Obviously, there is something that prevents you from talking to me", Elizabeth broke the silence. "It's my turn to be sorry now since you're probably almost dying from hunger and fatigue while I – sated and well rested – am trying to force you into the most boring kind of conversation. Do you want me to have the maid bring you some food? I am sure there is something left in the kitchen."

"Yes, that … eh … would be very kind, thank you." As a matter of fact, Charlotte felt neither hungry nor tired. Her mind was floated with all kinds of unfinished thoughts and the unexpected absence of her aunt (or was it the presence of this strange lady?) didn't do much to improve things. Nevertheless, while eating there was not much time left to commit one faux pas after another as she felt she had done since she first entered this room.

Elizabeth rang a little bell, a servant appeared and was sent to fetch some food from the kitchen.

"Since we're all alone here, nobody will mind you eating in the library. I'd like to be selfish and enjoy your company a little longer but of course I wouldn't mind if you preferred to take your dinner in your room."

"No, the library is fine with me", Charlotte lied, feeling she had been trapped.

"Wonderful", Elizabeth said a little too enthusiastic and clapped her hands. "Now you've decided to stay here, you should get yourself a seat. Why not use the chaise lounge over there?"

She pointed to a piece of furniture standing just opposite the armchair she was sitting in.

"And don't forget to take off that awful travelling cloak. It's far too hot in here anyway."

Charlotte obeyed, pulling of the cloak and throwing it over the chaise lounge before sitting down on it herself.

"So", Elizabeth began again, hoping the girl would become less reserved when being asked some harmless questions. "How was your journey? I hope you haven't been bothered by highwaymen?" A devilish smile spread across her face and Charlotte almost got the impression that she actually enjoyed the thought of being bothered by ordinary scoundrels.

"No. It was a very quiet journey. And somewhat boring", she dared to add.

"Ah yes, I can see that. Travelling alone is always a real misfortune. It's much more amusing if you have some travelling companions you can get to know during the journey."

Her voice was warm and encouraging now and Charlotte felt herself warming up to her. She was probably nothing more than a kind woman with a rather more interesting past than others.

"You have travelled a lot?" Charlotte asked, becoming a little more self-confident.

"I'd rather say I have. You probably have heard about my dear father serving as governor of Port Royal?"

"Port Royal? Is that … eh … in Jamaica?"

"Was. Port Royal is no more. It was destroyed in a terrible earthquake the year I left. Now the island's governor – who is a good friend of mine – resides in Kingston. I think I have seen quite a lot of places all around the Caribbean. And", Elizabeth added proudly, "I have even been to Singapore!"

Charlotte felt her head spinning even faster. So many places she had never even heard talking about... places that sounded strange, exotic and – to tell the truth – terribly exciting. She was just about to ask where Singapore was located when the servant came back, placing a small table in front of Charlotte. She soon found herself facing a huge salver, loaded with all kinds of food ranking from a turkey to various pies, cooked vegetables and some fruit. Having poured a reasonable amount of red wine into an expensive looking chalice, the servant bowed and left the ladies to each other's company again.

"Bon appétit!" Elizabeth exclaimed, taking a sip from her own chalice which had been refilled as well.

With the first bite she took, Charlotte suddenly realized that she must have felt like starving for hours. Forgetting all about good manners and Elizabeth's presence, she began eating hastily, stuffing food down her throat and taking rather large gulps of wine.

Watching her, Elizabeth felt herself reminded of a very similar behaviour she had once shown while having been forced to dine with an evil as well as (for the time being) undead pirate named Barbossa. She felt anger welling up inside her – not because of what Barbossa had done to her but because of what he had done to Jack. Thinking of Jack, on the other hand, made her anger fade immediately and a small and gentle smile spread across her face. It hurt, of course. But then, she didn't mind a little pain from time to time – and this was one definitely worth bearing.

She was still lost in all kinds of pleasant memories when Charlotte's voice interrupted her musings.

"So is there any truth to the stories?" Charlotte's eyes glistened enthusiastically in the flickering light of the candelabra and Elizabeth was delighted to note that the girl probably wasn't used to drinking even the tiniest amount of alcohol. Her chalice was completely empty and its contents had done the trick and loosened her tongue. Her voice didn't seem steady anymore but the fact that she had dared to ask her a question which was everything but polite suggested that they could have an interesting little conversation before going off to sleep.

"What stories?" Of course, Elizabeth knew exactly what the girl was talking about but Charlotte's blatant excitement amused her immensely and she had no intention to make it fade too soon. Yes, it was definitely fun to have created an image people were talking about. And Elizabeth was sure that people were talking about her in a way which wasn't quite admiring but still somewhat awestruck.

Charlotte blushed, despite the alcohol. To be on the safe side, Elizabeth reached for the decanter the servant had left on the table and poured some more wine into Charlotte's chalice.

"The stories about … I mean, what they say about you."

"And what do they say."

The girl blushed even more and Elizabeth had to suppress a grin. "I'm sorry but I … I didn't want … I … I just …" And then curiosity prevailed. "You know, that you were kidnapped by pirates – and marooned on an island with the worst of them! Oh yes, and that you did escape by tying some turtles together. So … is it true?"

"Aye", Elizabeth replied playfully and enjoyed the feeling of letting a word escape her lips which would have drawn the attention of a whole London dinner party.

Charlotte's eyes became larger and larger and for a moment Elizabeth feared they would drop out of the girl's head, which reminded her of a certain one eyed pirate she had once known.

Charlotte took another sip and focussed Elizabeth in a way which made her wonder if her vision was already blurred.

"You know", she said, obviously trying to remember what they had just talked about, "I don't think I'll ever live to see something THAT exciting. Actually…" Another sip. "I haven't even been as far as France."

"Oh, I think the reason for your stay in Chiswick is exciting enough, though. A lovely little escapade, if you ask me …"

Elizabeth had just finished the sentence when Charlotte jumped up, almost knocking over the small table with the remains of the dinner still on it. "He is NOT an escapade," she declared passionately. "I love Marius and I WILL marry him, no matter what they say!" She then began to sway on her legs and fell backwards, winding up on the chaise lounge again.  
There was a fire burning in the girl's eyes that Elizabeth hadn't thought possible. There was definitely more to Charlotte Cowley than met the eye, which was good. Elizabeth smiled again, deciding that her stay in the country would probably not have to be that bad after all. Her nasty cough hadn't reappeared during the whole evening and she decided that this girl provided just the kind of company she needed to recover in an agreeable fashion – even if this meant she had to get her drunk every night.

"I see. Nevertheless an interesting story which I'd love to hear. If you want to share it with me, of course"

Actually this was the invitation Charlotte unconsciously had been waiting for since she had entered this house. Having regained her composure after her little outburst and taken another sip of that delicious drink in the beautiful chalice, she began to retell her own personal romance in the most vivid colours.

Marius DuMaurier, a young painter from France had been hired by her mother to act as a drawing master. She had taken a liking to the young man immediately and it wasn't long until they were exchanging longing glances at each other. The drawing lessons turned into inspiring conversations and soon a whole flood of letters and little presents were exchanged. They even had dared to kiss behind the greenhouses in the garden while her mother believed them to draw squirrels.  
Unfortunately, Mrs. Cowley had started to wonder about her daughter's sudden interest in drawing (which demanded several lessons a week) and decided to take a little stroll around her bedroom. She had found Marius' letters – all of them, tied together with a red ribbon – in the drawer and that was the end of it. Marius had been forbidden to ever enter the Cowleys' house again and Charlotte had been forced to write to him, declaring that she had no interest whatsoever in continuing their acquaintance. To make sure she really had no opportunity to do so, it was decided to send her to Chiswick so she could spent the summer away from London and get over her unfortunate infatuation as quickly as possible.

" … And so", she closed somewhat dramatically, "I am here now, with a broken heart and nothing left but the most painful memories of the only man I will ever love."

Elizabeth face remained grave. She actually felt sorry for the girl even though she knew better than anyone that Charlotte was talking complete nonsense. Marius DuMaurier was most likely NOT the great love of Charlotte Cowley's life but there was absolutely no use in telling her that now. She'd probably heard it too many times before and it hadn't changed anything. At eighteen, Elizabeth had been the same and unlike so many others, she hadn't forgotten about that. But still, this was not the time for another 'When I was your age…' tale.

"Will you believe me", Elizabeth said instead, "when I tell you that I am in a very similar situation? You see, the man I love – mind you, the only one – is as far from me as I can possibly imagine. I don't even know if he's still alive."

"Really?" Charlotte had emptied her chalice again and by now she had to be completely drunk. Her eyes were glittering absently but Elizabeth knew that she would still be able to draw some comfort out of what she was saying, even if she didn't get the words anymore.

"Yes. I swear that every word I am going to tell you now is true. I left him behind when I came to England. It has been fifteen years now but I can still remember the way he talked, recall the twinkle in his eyes when he laughed and the simple fact that he had the longest lashes I've ever seen on a human being. If I want to, I can even remember the way every single one of his scars felt when I ran my fingers over it."

"And… it doesn't hurt?"

"Yes, it does, immensely. But that's not what it's all about – I've gotten used to thinking of him in a way that helps me to move on, to look at the future as a little brighter than I would have done without him. Yes," she nodded emphatically. "I definitely think that remembering him makes my world a better place. It reminds me that there's always a way out and nothing as important as to realize that you can do the things you want to do just because you want it. The mere thought of him sets me free."

Charlotte looked impressed and confused. Obviously, Elizabeth pondered, she hadn't understood a word of what she had just said. The girl was smart, no question, but there was still too much of a child in her, a naïve, overly romantic spirit staunchly believing that she had just met and lost her one true love. Elizabeth looked at the wide eyed girl, seeing a younger reflection of herself in her big blue eyes. She had been the same, once, a long time ago. A warm smile spread across her face when she thought of Will. William Turner, the handsome, brave and devoted companion of her childhood and beyond, the boy she had rescued from the sea. How she had loved him. How she had spent nights and nights awake, thinking about him, writing letters in her head she never dared to put down to paper the next morning. She had fought for him, had won his heart – but in the end, fate intervened. And along came Jack …

Yes, she decided, the girl definitely needed some good advice and all evidence pointed to the fact that she was exactly the right person to act as her advisor.

"We should go to bed now and get some rest," she said. "But I'd really like to continue this little chat tomorrow. There is a time for everything – and for me, the time has come to finally face the truth…"

tbc


	2. Chapter 2

Sorry it took me so long to post chapter 2. I have been to Italy and therefore didn't have access to the internet. Anyway, I'm back now, sun burnt and with several new chapters as well as loads of ideas ;-)

Thanks to everyone who reviewed Chapter 1, I was really delighted to find you liked it :-) Now, if you really want to make me happy, leave some tiny little comments for chapter 2 as well ...

**Title:** "Life Without A Compass"  
**Author:** ladyofthesilent  
**Rating:** hard R, maybe NC-17 (for later chapters)  
**Pairings:** Jack/Elizabeth, some Will/Elizabeth and Elizabeth/others (implied)   
**Genre: **Humour/Romance/Angst/General (probably a little bit of everything)  
**Warnings:** Spoilers for CotBP and DMC  
**Disclaimer:** The mouse? But I honestly believe Jack and Elizabeth are owned by no one but themselves ...  
**Summary:** Charlotte has a hangover and Elizabeth feels inspired to talk a little about her childhood …  
**Status:** Chapter 2 - Inebriation

**Chapter 2 - Inebriation**

Waking up with a headache was not a pleasant experience. Neither was waking up on the floor or waking up in the same dress you wore the day before. For Charlotte, things seemed even worse. Apart from waking up with a terrible headache, she was lying on the floor wearing the same dress she had put on more than twenty-four hours ago and she had no idea, whatsoever, where she was and how she had gotten there. The first thing that came to her mind was that she must have gotten off the island she had spent the night on – and strangely, the squirrels who had been her companions there had presumably disappeared as well, as had the lovely little lake filled with the most delicious wine.

She spent what seemed like hours pondering on her strange fate when a coconut fell right off a coconut tree and straight onto her head, making her finally realize that something was definitely wrong here. She looked up to the ceiling. There was no way a coconut tree would ever fit in here. But, on the other hand, she had never seen that kind of tree before, so one could never know …

"Miss Cowley? Lady Wentworth has me look for you because you haven't … Miss Cowley?"

And then a face appeared above her, a face which belonged to a woman with a strange headdress. Maybe she was in Singapore now and that was where you wore headdresses like that. But then, she hadn't been to Singapore either so how was she to know which kind of headdress …

"Oh my … Miss Cowley! What has happened? Are you all right?"

"Yes … but tell me, what did become of those dainty little squirrels?"

"Squirrels? I suppose they are outside in the park, Miss."

A park. So that was interesting …

Charlotte tried to turn her head but it hurt almost unbearably and so she decided to avoid every kind of future movement. The woman with the headdress, however, didn't seem to agree with that. Charlotte could see her face coming nearer. And then two hands pulled her up into a seated position.

"Do you think you can stand? You must have fallen out of your bed and hit your head on the night table. Maybe we should call a doctor …"

"I don't think we'll need to bother the doctor, Marianne. I rather think the young Miss needs a VERY SMALL AMOUNT of red wine with some whisked egg in it. And some breakfast, though I suppose she will refuse to eat it."

Another voice… And this one sounded strangely familiar, like she'd heard it before. Charlotte felt on the verge of remembering something crucial about her current state but her head still felt too heavy for anything but sitting on her neck.

"You can go now; I'll take care of her myself. And bring up some water!"

And then somebody else was holding her a little less careful and suddenly pulled her to her feet.

"I'm going to die!" Charlotte declared, convinced that her head wouldn't survive this rapid movement.

"No, you're not. That is … at least if you'd be the first person ever to die of a hangover."

"Hangover?" Charlotte croaked.

"Yes. Hangover. It's called like that when you had a wee bit too much to drink the day before. Which – undoubtedly – you had. It's not a very pleasant feeling, I grant you that. But I've known people who had much more to drink than you had yesterday. And most of them are still alive. Well, sort of."

And by that, she – whoever she was for Charlotte couldn't see her face or remember her name – made her sit down on the bed, still holding her steady.

"I think", the voice which was wearing a green dress said, "we should now clarify some elemental questions. Like, for example, who you are …"

Some hours and various household remedies later, Charlotte was feeling well enough to join the voice in green which – as she remembered now – was called Lady Elizabeth Wentworth for a little stroll along the extensive grounds attached to Chiswick Hall. Her head was still aching slightly and her mouth felt somewhat numb and dry, but the momentary loss of memory had disappeared almost completely and meanwhile she was even able to remember parts of what had happened the night before. This didn't do much to improve things, though. She had behaved like a common whore in one of those filthy taverns, pouring out her heart to a complete stranger while losing all good sense because of that vile drink called wine. There had never been another moment she had felt so ashamed of herself … well, maybe except for the afternoon she had backed away when Marius had tried to stick his tongue between her teeth. But never mind about that now.

"Lad… I mean, Elizabeth, I …"

"If this is just another attempt to apologize for what happened yesterday, I don't want to hear it. As I told you last time and the time before, there's no need to apologize for anything. You didn't hurt anyone – not even yourself, so what's the matter?"

"But …"

"No, listen …" Elizabeth looked as if she was trying to make her mind up to something, then continued. "When I got drunk – I mean, REALLY drunk – for the first time, I was stuck on an uninhabited island with a pirate called … no, let's talk about that later. In any case, we were alone, just the two of us and there was nothing to drink except for a fair supply of rum left there by a couple of rumrunners who had used the island as a hiding-place several years before. Now, that's a vile drink now, if you ask me," Elizabeth said, obviously having read Charlotte's mind. "Turns the most respectable men into complete scoundrels. However, it did work for me quite well, too. After several pulls from the bottle, we both were dancing around a large fire, singing a somewhat stupid song about …"

"You … and the pirate?" Charlotte asked, seemingly unable to digest what she had just heard.

Elizabeth smiled. The girl was beginning to get amusing even without the aid of alcohol. "Yes – me and the pirate. You know, he was a very handsome pirate with a nice singing voice. And he told me the most amazing stories of adventure, romance – and freedom." Charlotte noticed that Elizabeth was no longer looking at her but staring into a faraway past only she could see.

They stopped on a small clearing, the sunlight breaking through the trees and leaving bright sparkles on their dress and faces. Then, suddenly, Charlotte could see the girl who had been stranded on that fateful island so many years ago: a tall, gawky girl in a white chemise, her wet her sticking down her back, bare feet in the sand.

"And … what happened?"

Elizabeth looked at her, smiling dreamily like having just returned from a voyage to the Milky Way and back. "I can't remember," she replied, a trace of sadness in her voice. "I think we may have fallen asleep … but when I woke up, I was in his arms."

Charlotte's eyes widened in shock and her mouth opened as if she wanted to say something but then she closed it again.

"No, not that … you know – I KNOW nothing happened. At least, not of that kind… We were both fully clad so I suppose … yes, probably, I must've felt cold in the middle of the night and crawled next to him. And then he must have taken me into his arms. But when I woke up the next morning, I was just as shocked as you appear to be now. And do you know what I did?"

Hopefully, Elizabeth didn't really expect her to say anything, Charlotte looked up at her curiously.

"I looked at him, lying there on the white sand, sleeping and I panicked. There was only thing left on my mind: I had to destroy whatever had caused this situation."

"You killed him?"

"No", Elizabeth replied casually, seemingly unmoved by Charlotte's bold suspicion. "For the time being, it was enough to burn the rum."

"But what did become of the pirate? And how did you get the turtles tied together? Who found you after …" It bubbled out of the younger woman's mouth excitedly, but Elizabeth lifted her hand to command silence.

"Easy …", she smiled. "I don't think it's of any use to make an attempt at answering all of your questions in one go. But since we have more than enough time to retell everything that happens in the bible, I could tell you the whole story. If you're interested, that is ..."

Of course, Elizabeth knew all too well that Charlotte would be interested. The girl was already dying to hear more stories of filthy pirates, violent murder, and forbidden touches on exotic islands. And so, in a sunlight clearing in the midst of dignified Chiswick Park, a story which had bided its time in silence began to unfold itself – a story so unbelievable that even Elizabeth herself would have doubted its authenticity, had she not found herself right in the midst of it. After all, it was her story and, as such, she was going to tell it.

"_As you might have guessed_", she began, "_I was born in England. Somerset, to be precise, at a place called Lowfield. I haven't returned there since we left after my mother's death but I can still remember what it was like there. It was not a big house – not as big as this one, anyway – but light and friendly with a beautiful garden. Whenever I think of this garden, I cannot help but think of my mother. She was a frail and rather small woman with dark hair and fair skin; the kindest, most soft-spoken woman anyone could imagine. My father admired her and I believe so did everybody else. _

_The garden was her own little world, a mock-up of the one out there she had always longed for to see but never could. My father was serving as an official at the Royal Court in London back then, spending most of his time in the city. Of course, my mother could have accompanied him there and I think he always hoped that one day, she would; but she hated London, its smothering heat in summer and its chilling cold in winter. She couldn't stand looking at the beggars populating its dirty streets, nor did she feel at ease with the grand circles my father's position would have allowed her to move in. _

_So she remained at Lowfield, deserted but happy with what she was left with. I was barely able to walk when she took me with her to the garden to teach me everything about the way the things of nature smelled, tasted and felt like. I learned that of two very similar looking leaves… one could feel like silk while the other cut like a knife. My eyes got used to not just seeing colour but many different shades of it. A cherry will never carry the same colour as a rowan-berry – and yet, both are red._

_There were all kinds of fruit and vegetables in my mother's garden and she always took a paring knife with her so she could cut them into pieces small enough to fit into my mouth. I was fascinated by the many different tastes, ranging from bitter to sweet, from dull to salty. Throughout my whole life, I've carried with me an inborn curiosity of what things taste like – I still do. As does everyone else who dares to surrender to it. _

_When I grew older, she taught me about the innumerable flowers that grew in their neatly tended beds. Although I may not have been aware of this when I was a little girl, I am sure this was her way to teach me about the world and its people. "There are", she said, "flowers like the Lily of the Valley. They are beautifully scented, but at the same time, they are as poisonous as to kill a grown man. And of course, there are the majestic roses which can make you hurt with their thorns if you're not careful. _

_Others, like this one over there may look beautiful from afar but as soon as you go nearer, their smell will drive you away. This plant, which, by the way, carries the interesting name of "Love Lies Bleeding" __seems boring and ugly now but just you wait a few weeks and it will blossom in the most colourful of ways."_

_I remember asking her how all these flowers could survive in winter for it had always appeared a little strange to me how something that obviously died in autumn could be back in spring. She thought about it for a while, then replied something along the lines of: "You see, not all of this garden's flowers could survive a hard winter. Only the strongest can brave it out – but mind you, being strong doesn't mean you have to be exceptionally big or outstanding in some other way. When the snow starts to melt, the first ones to come out again are not the impressive roses but the tiny snowdrops._

_Having survived the winter, most flowers will blossom again more lively and colourful than they've ever done before. And the ones who've died will leave room for new ones, perhaps completely different from their predecessors but still as unique and beautiful."_

_As it turned out, my mother was not strong enough a flower to brave a hard winter. What started out as a simple cough soon turned into pneumonia and not even the doctors my father brought with him from London could save her. She died the day I spotted the first snowdrop. I remember stepping on it before ripping it to pieces. _

_Only two days after her burial, my father left Lowfield for good and took me with him to London._

_I was determined to hate the city because that was what I knew my mother had done. But then, after some time spent in my father's town-house at Grosvenor-Square, I couldn't help but wonder what this strange and yet exciting place smelt, felt and tasted like. I began to enjoy the afternoon-strolls I took with my governess, poor Miss Melchett who in vain tried to teach me some French and how to play the piano. I had never seen a person with skin as dark as ebony, nor had I ever got to hear someone speak in a language I didn't even recognize as being European. What the garden at Lowfield had been to my mother, London now became for me: A mock-up of the whole wide world, a melting pot of colours, tastes and personalities. _

_My father, however, almost died of fear something terrible could happen to me. As you may be able to guess from what I've told you so far, I was a very curious girl and so it wasn't long until I almost got myself into serious trouble. _

_One day, I may have been about ten at the time, I persuaded our cook to take me with her to the market. At first, I was more than impressed by the many people surrounding us, the things you could buy there, the screams of the pitchmen and the smells which seemed to reach London from some far-away shore. But soon enough, I got bored by the endless negotiations my companion had to conduct with the butcher, the green-grocer, the fishmonger, and so, as soon as the opportunity provided itself, I freed myself from the cook's grip and disappeared in the crowd. _

_The first thing to catch my eye was a market stall displaying a wide and colourful range of objects I had never seen before. Wondering what they were, I reached out for something looking like a somewhat deformed lady's hat with a feather adornment on top. Surprisingly, it felt hard and rather prickly. Curious whether this thing was as heavy as it felt like, I grabbed it with both of my hands and was just on the verge of lifting it when an angry voice shouted: _

"_Hey, ye li'l piece o' dirt, take that pineapple and I swear I blow yer head off!"_

_I froze in shock, my hands still wrapped around the strange thing I now knew must be some sort of fruit named "pineapple". _

"_I… " I stumbled. "…I'm sorry, I didn't … I'm not … not a thief!"_

"_Yeah, that's what they say …", another voice – a woman's – came up from behind me and before I realized what was going on, I was grabbed by two strong hands and pulled away from the stall._

"_I have her!" she shouted. "Someone get for the police!" _

_These words made me see myself dying in prison or, even worse, being branded__. I struggled to free myself but the woman was a lot stronger than I was and gripped me even tighter. In desperation, I tried to bite her hand but this only led to her reaching for my hair and yanking my head back. _

"_I am Elizabeth Swann", I screamed in pain, hoping that someone would recognize my name as belonging to a well-known London family, but no one seemed to care. I had almost given up when a man's voice said: "What are you people doing? The girl belongs to me!"_

"_Hah! This girl is nothing than a worthless little thief!"_

"_Very well. But do you actually think worthless little thieves could afford a dress like THAT?"_

_For a long moment, I felt as if everyone's eye was resting on me. Then, suddenly I was set free. Rubbing my aching neck, I spotted a tall gentleman clad in a black cloak with a wig and a three-cornered hat on his head. He smiled at me, then reached for my hand and said: "Elizabeth, dear, I've been looking for you the whole morning. Where have you been?"_

"_Ye should take better care o' the lass", the salesman said reproachfully while the stranger was already pulling me away. _

"_I will", my rescuer shouted back at him. "Sorry to have troubled you." And with that, we lost sight of the lamentable market stall and its wondrous wares. Completely caught out I did not fight but let the cloaked gentleman lead me out of the market's chaos and into a quiet side road. It was not until we stopped there that I remembered the fact that I had been strictly forbidden to go with strangers. Letting go of his hand, I tried to run away but the man seemed to have expected something like that, got hold of my arm and whirled me around. Wide-eyed with fear, I saw him kneel down in front of me, still smiling. _

"_Easy, young lady. You don't have to be afraid of me. But of course, a young lady like you has probably been told not to go with strangers – quite rightly so, if I may add. Still, you were probably also told not to stroll around London on your own – which you didn't take too serious, obviously." _

_I must have looked quite shame-faced for he patted my shoulder in a compassionate gesture. "Now, now … things like that can happen to anyone and I suppose you've learned your lesson. So if you could be so kind as to tell me your address, I'd be glad to accompany back home."_

_I eyed him suspiciously, not afraid anymore but rather excited by the way this whole story had turned out. "No", I replied, feeling in for a little fight (for the stranger seemed to be no dangerous adversary). "What's to say you're not a -" I thought for some fearsome creature. "- pirate, trying to kidnap me so you can blackmail my father?"_

_This may strike you as a very coquettish __and forward thing to say for a girl my age and you're probably right. But still, this is what I said and the stranger didn't seem to mind. To the contrary, he appeared rather amused. "Ah, yes. A pirate. So, you know a lot about pirates?"_

"_Well, I've read about them. They are vile, dirty creatures who sail the seven seas in search of reputable virgins they can kidnap and … oh …"_

_Truth be told, I didn't have a tangible idea of what they did with the virgins after they had kidnapped them but the whole thing sounded tremendously exciting. _

"_I am sorry to disappoint you", my companion smiled, "but unfortunately I am not employed as a pirate at the present time. I have met one, thought, and I know a song about pirates which I'd be glad to teach you if you let me take you home – Miss Swann! And by the way, I know exactly where you live – being a friend of your father's, that is."_

_And so I had no other choice than to return home in a rather inglorious way. Still, I was rewarded with a song about pirates which I remember up to the present day. It doesn't paint a very nice picture of these people's profession and from my own experiences I can assure you that parts of it are somewhat naïve; still, when I taught it to a pirate – a real one! – he enjoyed it so much he even taught it to his whole crew_."

For a moment, Elizabeth paused, almost as if she had been overwhelmed by the memories.

"Ah yes," she finally added dreamily. "I expect they're still the most fearsome pirates in the Spanish Main – if not in the whole world!"


	3. Chapter 3

_Finally, I'm done with chapter 3; it's a little shorter than the others but I hope you'll like it anyway. Many thanks to everyone who cared to write a review. I've been rather busy lately but I promise I'll go back to answering all of your comments :-)_

**Chapter 3 - - Incoherency**

**Title:** "Life Without A Compass"  
**Author:** ladyofthesilent  
**Rating:** hard R, maybe NC-17 (for later chapters)  
**Pairings:** Jack/Elizabeth, some Will/Elizabeth and Elizabeth/others (implied)   
**Genre: **Humour/Romance/Angst/General (probably a little bit of everything)  
**Warnings:** Spoilers for CotBP and DMC  
**Disclaimer:** The mouse? But I honestly believe Jack and Elizabeth are owned by no one but themselves ...  
**Summary:** Elizabeth hears a story about pirates

Charlotte watched Elizabeth from the corner of her eye, surprised how absorbed the elder woman had become by her own story. Her looks had always betrayed her true age but now, in the dim light of the evening sun, cheeks reddened and eyes filled with life, Charlotte couldn't help but think that Lady Elizabeth Wentworth had indeed turned into the rebellious girl from her story that had just been taught a song about pirates.

"Who was the gentleman that came to your rescue at the market? Was he really a friend of your father's?", she asked, indignant to press her companion but unable to suppress her curiosity.

Elizabeth turned her head to look at her, very slowly, almost as if she was unwilling to let go of some unknown image that seemed to have manifested itself inside her mind. She needed a few moments to realize what Charlotte's question had been, then answered with a smile: "The gentleman introduced himself as Mr. Robertson and as it turned out, he was indeed some kind of acquaintance of my father's."

"And is it true he actually met a pirate?"

"Yes, it is. He probably met quite a few of them, but I think there was one he remembered in particular. However, I didn't get to hear his story for I just couldn't stop singing until we had arrived at the doorstep of our London home. And once we got in, there was no way for us to continue our pleasant little chat. I was sent to my room immediately where I had to endure three exhausting lectures on what happened to little girls who were walking around London while the whole house-hold was dying from sorrow – one from my father, one from Miss Melchett and one from the cook who had returned from the market, all in tears.

To be honest, I can't remember what my reaction was but I don't think I behaved as remorsefully as I was expected to. In the end, I was sentenced with three weeks of house arrest which, in my eyes, was quite definitely worth it to have met a man like Mr. Robertson, heard the song, and the fact that now I knew what a pineapple looked like."

"But you did meet him again – I mean, Mr. Robertson?"

"Well, yes. Only a few days after my infamous adventure at the market, on a Saturday evening after dinner – I was already wearing my nightdress – our maid came to my room and made me dress again. I was then brought downstairs by Miss Melchett who finally left me in the library. There, my father was sitting with my rescuer, both of them absorbed in some lively conversation when my arrival was announced.

"Good evening, Elizabeth", my father said formally as it was his way.

"Good evening, father", I replied casually, "Good evening, Mr. Robertson."

I was overjoyed to meet the man again, especially since I couldn't wait to hear his story about the pirate. Actually, I had thought of little else during the past few days which I had entirely spent in my room, drawing ships and reading a novel about a princess and a pirate which I had pinched from one of the maids.

Standing up from his armchair, Mr. Robertson bowed slightly and smiled at me astutely: "Good evening, Miss Swann. I am glad to see you've recovered from your somewhat unusual trip to the market."

"We cannot thank you enough for your courageous intervention, can we? Elizabeth?"

My father obviously expected an expression of thanks from my side as well, but at this particular moment, I wasn't able to speak at all. My eyes were fixed on Mr. Robertson, whose body – without being hidden by a cloak – was clearly lacking of an important part. The longer I stared at him, the more I became convinced that his left arm was missing. I knew my father was shooting angry glances at me but I just couldn't help asking wondrously: "What has happened to your arm?" And after a few seconds, remembering my upbringing: "Sir?"

"Elizabeth, what …", my father began but was interrupted by our one-armed guest.

"No, please don't scold her for a question I would consider as completely natural. Truth be told, I prefer a honest question to fifty people staring at me for the whole evening but feeling too polite to ask what strange act of destiny made me lose my arm. Which, I have to admit, is quite an entertaining story I actually enjoy retelling..."

He made another bow, then sat down again and looked questioningly at my father. He still seemed to be less than contented with the behaviour I had shown towards Mr. Robertson but reluctant to start another dispute. So he told me to sit down in one of the remaining armchairs from where I could listen comfortably to Mr. Robertson's story.

"As it is", he began, "your father asked me to tell you a little bit about Jamaica and the Caribbean as a whole for a reason we'll come to in no time. The story of my arm or rather the way I lost it is, in my opinion, a rather interesting tale to start with." From the way my father looked at him I could detect he thought otherwise but did not dare to interrupt his guest. Mr. Robertson, however, was not in the slightest put off by this. He smiled at me and continued:

"I came to the Caribbean as a Lieutenant serving in the Royal Navy. Later on, I was promoted a Commodore and it was in this position I got into trouble with some merchant sailors who turned out to be nothing than a pack of vile criminals."

Turning to my father, he added: "You should really look out for those fellows of the East India Trading Company. They may enjoy the protection of the crown but the king has no knowledge at all of their dealings down there. Especially Beckett – I'm sure you remember what I've told you about poor Feversham's son."

My father nodded, obviously not feeling inclined to follow this subject any further as long as I was sitting with them. As you may already suspect, I was dying to learn what had happened to 'poor Feversham's son' but was wise enough not to ask as I wanted to hear Mr. Robertson finish his story. So, fighting my curiosity, I bit my tongue and looked at him expectantly. Having secured my attention, he continued: "Anyway, the story which led me to fight that watery-eyed scoundrel would take me far too long to tell, and I don't think it would be of any interest to you at all. I am not a bad swordsman and I still believe I'd won if he'd not been joined by a companion of his, sporting two exceptionally sharp daggers of a kind I'd never seen before. It's not easy to keep an eye on everything that's happening around you while absorbed in a complicated fight and so I failed to recognize the man approaching me from behind with a weapon that resembled a shamshir, those famous Persian sabres that are said to cut a man in half with only one stroke. He brought it down on my left arm, leaving it a bloody mess only loosely attached to the body. Screaming, I fell to my knees, clutching my shoulder and expecting the inevitable end. Which, surprisingly, didn't come.

Instead, a mocking voice shouted from above: "Seems like you boys from the Royal Navy have improved considerably since we last met. But thinking about it, it is rather more likely Beckett's staff has gone even worse. The result of employing a whole bunch of psychotics?"

And then, a strange creature jumped down from its place in the rigging of the three-master we were fighting on , right onto the giant sporting the sabre which had mangled my arm. My attacker was pulled down and probably fell unconscious for he remained completely unmoved by everything that went on around him in the minutes that followed.

My rescuer stepped over him as if he was nothing but a piece of cloth left on deck and planted himself in front of the two remaining scoundrels. Through my pain-blurred vision I now could see a man of indefinite age with long black hair, braided in a way common among the African slaves you can find throughout the Caribbean. He was wearing an abundance of colourful rags and had a belt fastened around his shoulder which probably contained his cutlass and sword.

"Hey", he shouted when one of my attackers lifted his dagger to stab me in the back. "I hadn't thought you as dull as to waste your time on killing a man who will die anyway while you have the priceless opportunity to get your hands on your employer's greatest nemesis."

The last thing I saw before the pain in my arm made me black out was him running towards the mainsail, Beckett's men right after him. I don't know how he did it, but I am almost convinced he didn't fire one single shot. I somehow remember him shouting something about a three-headed monkey but this might have been nothing more than my feverish imagination. Whatever had happened, I came back to consciousness and found myself facing the man who had just saved my life. He called me 'Lieutenant Robertson', but although there was something strangely familiar in his features, I didn't recognize him. He looked around as if to make sure no one was watching, then he untied one of the rags he had wrapped around the wrist of his right hand, tying it around my injured arm to stanch the flow of blood. While he was doing so, I couldn't help but recognize the 'P' that had been branded deeply into his skin. So there was no way escaping the fact that the man who had just come to my rescue so boldly was indeed – a pirate!

I must have blacked out again for when I woke again, I was back in Port Royal where I was told I had been unconscious for a mere week. I pulled it through despite some nasty blood-poisoning, but they couldn't save my arm, though. So, as soon as I was fit enough to travel, I returned to England where I was made advisor to the king. But still", Mr Robertson concluded his tale, "I will never forget about that man whom, without a doubt, I owe my life to."

Now, as you can very well imagine, this story excited and bewildered me at the same time. In the books I'd read, pirates were the villains who threatened and killed people, not the ones who risked their own lives to save them.

"But he was a pirate…" I said, confused.

"Pirate or not, he was a good man and I wholeheartedly regret I never got the chance to thank him properly," Mr. Robertson said and I could tell from the force in his voice that he really meant it.

"Samuel," my father interrupted him vigorously, calling him by his first name, "that man may have done one good deed but this is surely not enough to excuse a lifetime spent in vileness and dishonesty."

"Weatherby," Mr. Robertson replied with as much vigour, "if I learned one thing out there, it's that there's other than only black and white in this world. I have seen many things I hadn't thought possible – so why not accept that you can be a pirate AND a good man?"

"Really", my father – who didn't like to be addressed by his first name which he despised – said, shaking his head, "I can accept that Jamaica is not England. You cannot expect to civilize a place like that within a few years; but the more I hear about it, the more I think that a variety of things started to go wrong when Feversham fell into madness. Don't get me wrong, I pity the man, having lost his wife and son, but this doesn't keep me from seeing things as they really are. There are changes to be made, even you can't deny that!"

I sat on the edge of my armchair, eyes roaming excitedly from one man to the other. Of course, I didn't really understand what they were talking about, but the sound of places like "Jamaica" and the mentioning of pirates, ships and a man gone mad were sufficiently enough to keep up my attention.

"No", Mr. Robertson replied truthfully, "nevertheless, certain things can't be changed. But you'll learn about that soon, I expect."

And then, both men were suddenly looking in my direction, Mr. Robertson smiling, my father with a sorrowful expression on his face.

"Elizabeth," the latter began, "could you imagine leaving England and living elsewhere? Let's say…" he paused, "in the Caribbean?"


End file.
